Oh, the cemetery. I know I am not unique this way, but still some folks might find it odd that our hometown cemetery is one of my favorite places. Physically, it is similar to other cemeteries -- it is up on a hill, has lots of trees, and has some undisturbed prairie sod where the unused plots are. But I like it because it is pretty and peaceful and several members of my family are there. Some of those people I knew, others I never met. But the main reason I like the cemetery is because it is where Grandpa and I used to hang out a lot. We mowed the cemetery and the school -- when one was finished, it was usually time to start on the other. It was my first real paid job (well, minus the W-2) and it was fun.
Grandpa rode the riding mower while I got to use a little push mower to trim around every single headstone. You would think I would have tried to count the stones during one of those many mowing missions, but I never did. When we took breaks, Grandpa and I would talk. I only remember two conversations. One is when Grandpa pointed out a stone and told me so-and-so had planted a rose bush there. He paused and I looked around a bit. I thought I knew which stone he meant, but I certainly didn't see a rose bush so I was searching around to find the one he was talking about. Grandpa waited an appropriate amount of time to enjoy my confusion and then told me the rose bush didn't grow. I said that was too bad. He paused and then told me he poured gas on it. I was horrified. He laughed. Then he explained that the lady wouldn't have taken care of it and it would have been hell to mow around, so he did what he did. He also told me if you pull plants like that out of the ground and then put them right back, they don't grow very well either. I was still aghast, but he laughed some more and I got over it.
During the other conversation I recall, Grandpa told me about the night his little sister, Hazel, died. One winter day, he and Uncle Elmer had taken guns and killed some cats, which was said to be bad luck. I didn't ask if this was because there were too many barn cats around or why they did this. At some point, four-year-old Hazel tagged along. They told her to go back to the house or she would catch her death of cold. I believe it was during that same night, Grandpa woke up to see the doctor and his folks in the bedroom the kids all shared. He said he looked over at Hazel and knew that she was dead. I looked it up, Grandpa was not quite seven years old at that time. Grandpa never killed another cat in his life. If he had a cat that needed to be put down, he asked someone else to do it for him.
The photo is of Aunt Irene, Aunt Helen and Aunt Clara. Helen was born about two months after Hazel died and she is pretty little in the picture, so this was taken fairly close in time to that sad event.
That Hazel and cat story, although extremely sad, is one of my favorite stories. Not the story itself, but the events that it led up to. Like the Jacks.
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